


He’s good at eating bananas and telling women about his emotional problems.

by birch_fence



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcoholic Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, But it’s spelled Filza, Character Study, Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Lovers To Enemies, Philza Minecraft is mentioned, Platonic Relationships, Pre-DreamSMP, Schlatt Cares About Wilbur, Sharing a Bed, Survival, They’re soulmates your honor, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur and Schlatt, but they’re really just friends tbh, on some tenth dimensional level
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:00:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birch_fence/pseuds/birch_fence
Summary: How Schlatt, slowly, very slowly, comes to terms with his affection for Wilbur.
Relationships: Connor | ConnorEatsPants & Jschlatt, Connor | ConnorEatsPants & Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	He’s good at eating bananas and telling women about his emotional problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah well I really just love Wilbur and Schlatt’s relationship so
> 
> Also there’s not a lot of it around.....................(ಥ ͜ʖಥ)

Recently Schlatt hadn’t been sleeping, though surely not for the things he’d done.

Remorse had never been a friend of his. 

The grating complaints of his shoulder keep his mind awake, like the sound of a bawling child; and, at one point during one night he’d contemplated raiding a local village for some semblance of relief. But, he knows as well as anyone the detriment to having an injury in the wilderness.

He doesn’t have a death wish. 

An amalgam of noises contribute to his insomnia, whether it be from benign or malignant mobs. And though he tends to flout death, he’s left alone with thoughts. His own to be specific. And it’s pathetic. 

During these nights Schlatt wonders if Connor had left him here to humble him, a penance for the trouble he caused. He’d vaguely promised a return, stoking his dormant anxiety.

Morning comes quietly, the birds are pleasantly silent, and Schlatt had curled over in his restlessness. He doesn’t feel like getting up and to his immense pique his left nostril is clogged for seemingly no reason at all, though the concern of infection works its way into his mind. 

Sitting up and yawning Schlatt realizes his mouth smells like death, telling him to hydrate. He reaches for the liquor bottle he’d nearly killed himself on last night, chasing sleep. 

The shape fits his hand like a well-used sword, though the bottle's weight is tragically light. It reaches his lips as a pseudo expression of love. The taste makes him want to spit and sputter but he chokes it down. And though he’s not looking, the paper thin door opens with a muted sound, something which calls his attention, because he knows it’s not Connor. 

“That shit’ll kill you, Schlatt.” The sharpness of their voice coaxes his eyelids apart. It’s nothing nagging or self-righteous, something which may drive him to murder. It’s ear-splitting all the same, though, and he wonders if this vulnerability is on him, or perhaps the contents of his stomach. 

The white undershirt of his guest makes his forehead ache.

He turns back to the wall, tossing away the empty bottle. “Go away.”

Wilbur places something atop that shitty table Connor had made. Schlatt tunes out the rest of his shufflings, idly contemplating how to rid himself of _Wilbur_.

Wilbur walks closer to him, pulling at his elbow in a move to turn him over. Schlatt growls and slaps him away. Wilbur sighs inaudibly. He makes a face. “Just let me help.”

Schlatt huffs a laugh. “I’d rather die.” Though he does nothing to impede Wilbur’s work.

With little assistance from Schlatt (none at all he’d say), Wilbur unbuttons his discolored button up. There’s something methodical and patient about the way Wilbur conducts himself, despite Schlatt’s petulance. 

His shirt’s off easily. 

Pressing something viscous and saccharine smelling to his lips, Wilbur coaxes some down his throat, pouring the rest over his shoulder. Schlatt’s disgusted by the way it makes him pliant, somnambulant as his excess energy leeches from his body, pooling in his shoulder.

Wilbur redresses his bandage cleaning his wound kindly, unlike Connor’s haphazard douse of alcohol. Wilbur’s brows frown in concentration as he works quietly. 

Despite himself Schlatt stares. And he’d heard somewhere at some point, that the key to an easy sleep, is being with someone you love.

Schlatt wakes for the second time that day, though it’s not really day at all.

He sits up with no ache to his body. There’s a lingering crust around his eyes, though it’s the good kind, signaling well rest. The walls no longer shudder at the surly night gales and he’s warm. His lungs fill with the smell of smoked beef. 

There’s a furnace and a fireplace. 

The front door opens revealing Wilbur, axe in hand. From his inventory he pulls dry logs, tossing them in the fire. 

“Where’s Connor?”

“He’s doing damage control.”

“Oh?”

Wilbur opens the furnace. “Don’t sound so pleased.” 

Schlatt looks away, saying: “I’m not,” then, “that’s not to say he doesn’t deserve a little trouble.”

Wilbur sighs, “Trouble that you caused, Schlatt.”

“Trouble that you partook in,” Schlatt grins. “Wilbur.”

Wilbur says nothing, taking a seat at the table. Schlatt follows his lead. The muscles in his legs shake at the effort, and he feels partly that under his shirt is nothing but a skeleton. 

With no acknowledgement of him Wilbur begins pushing food into his mouth, cusping impropriety. 

Schlatt pauses momentarily to clasp his hands together, a formality Wilbur doesn’t seem to share. And it’s strange because they’ve eaten together before, though never alone. After a moment he gives up, words of prayer haven’t come in a long time, whether it be out of a sense of pride or shame he isn’t sure. 

His mouth is filled with water before the food reaches his mouth. The steak crunches nicely between his teeth, fatty and full of salt. He eats faster, grease dripping minutely into his stubble which he wipes away politely. After the meat is gone he starts on the carrots, not cooked quite to his liking, though charred and vaguely sweet, like a yam. 

He downs it all with water Wilbur had no doubt prepared. It’s lukewarm and earthy, though he can’t complain. 

After they eat, Wilbur hands him a small loaf of bread saying something about carbs and their importance. Schlatt devours that too without a second thought. And he looks outside through the windows that weren’t there the previous day (Wilbur was always a stickler for cosmetics) and thinks, _that’s a shit ton of mobs_. 

He’d never quite realized how many, writhing in his cardboard box of a home. _Sat like a duck_ , Wilbur might say, because he’s fucking annoying.

They stay far away tonight, the torches flutter proudly at him. Schlatt smiles in thanks.

Wilbur sits at his own bed. A new addition to the bare oak plank box in which he resides. The sheets fold crisp and clean as he climbs in. Schlatt’s mouth waters at the sight. Because despite appearances, _J. Schlatt_ enjoys a sense of cleanliness. The sheets of his own are twisted and crumpled, stained with blood and sweat. 

Schlatt contemplates kicking Wilbur out and stealing his sheets, but thinks better of it. He’s not tired enough to sleep anyway, though Wilbur’s out like a light. From the looks of things his guest will be staying a while. 

He sits at his bed, though the area is so small he can hear Wilbur’s breathing. It’s smooth and quiet, tandem with the expansion of his chest. They’ve slept in the same vicinity before, though never alone. 

He doesn’t appreciate how intrusive it makes him feel, out of place, as if a pair were fucking right before him. And there’s a strange feeling accompanying this wordless trust Wilbur has gifted him. Although they’ve done this dance before, not quite to the same tune. 

Since meeting they’ve had each other’s backs (some of the time). That’s how it’d gone. Though this, this feels different. 

Schlatt shakes off the thought, feeling strange. For himself he takes Wilbur’s iron sword and cringes at how poorly it’s been kept. Despite his reputation as a self-proclaimed _iron slut_ his dislike of weapons manifests here. In a way horrifically detrimental to Schlatt. 

He frowns regardless, sheathing it and tossing it over his shoulder. 

Having regained mobility and stamina, Schlatt makes his way to the village, uncowed by the mobs nearby. His shoulder buzzes with a dull ache, but he hardly feels it, reveling in the night air. It’s dry and sweet, nostalgic like summer evenings. 

Hay’s woody scent reaches his nose, making him slightly drowsy, and muted lights come into view, igniting the atmosphere. The villagers babble incessantly, though there are few out at this time. The gossip is directed towards him. He doesn’t mind. 

Not needing to search long, the village’s composition being fairly small, he finds what he’s looking for. 

* * *

Wine, sweet and thin, drains down his throat warming in his stomach. He’s on his—glass. The number of which escapes Schlatt, though it hardly concerns him. 

“You bad habits’ll kill you,” Wilbur says, bright eyed and bushy tailed. He’s awake just as sunlight crawls across the horizon. 

Schlatt snickers to himself. “Broken record.”

And his green bottle is lifted from the table smoothly. Wilbur brings it to his lips in an elegant motion, taking a swig which seems to last for an eternity. It returns with a muted thump and with a brush of sleeve against lips Wilbur’s gone and out the door. 

Schlatt’s not sure what Wilbur’s up to on this day, the air’s wet with a soggy humidity. 

Schlatt decides that he doesn’t care, and besides his shoulder hurts so much that he couldn’t _possibly_ partake. 

Ensuring that Wilbur’s out for sure, Schlatt takes to his chest. It’s filled with potions and brewing equipment, things Wilbur wouldn’t want to lose in the event of his death, like a photo. One which captures his companion, dressed nicely, hugged affectionately by a blond boy. 

And there’s something disconcerting about seeing Wilbur in clothes other than his black shacket and shirt. Flipping it over absentmindedly, he sees a message scrawled on the back. 

He ignores it, finding a date printed in the bottom corner: _4.7.1938._

_It wasn’t too long ago._

He returns the photo and frowns when he realizes the nonexistence of a spare communicator.

He needs to contact Connor. 

Schlatt contemplates jumping Wilbur and taking his. It’s a brief, shameful thought. He’s not one for harming a man he owes.

By midday, Wilbur returns. 

He goes immediately to his chest filling it with the day’s work. He smelts as well, some 20 iron ore. 

“I’ve just got word from Connor,” Wilbur says. He pulls cloth from his inventory, coaxing Schlatt’s shirt off once more. He’d make a crude joke but his attention is solely on Wilbur’s words. “He needs more time to assuage the anger surrounding you—your actions.”

Schlatt grins. “It’s not like I haven’t done worse.”

Wilbur gives him a look, but says nothing. 

“Just give it time, Wilbur, you guys can’t live without me.”

Wilbur hums. “We can’t live with you either.” He finishes the dressing, tying it up in a queer little bow. Schlatt shrugs his shirt back on.

“It’s healing nicely, your injury.” With a smile Wilbur pulls a flint and steel from his inventory. “Go catch us some dinner, won’t you? It looks like rain.” He places it next to Schlatt. 

And J. Schlatt might think that there’s something about this which is domestic, common, if Wilbur didn’t look so damn spiteful.

The injury which could have been life-threatening, perhaps, possibly at one point, doesn’t impair his movement as much as he’d feared. Though after a close call with a few dozen mobs, he turns in for the night, boasting some charred steak and chicken.

“I’m home.” Schlatt says with relief, exhausted to an embarrassing degree. And Wilbur (who the greeting hadn’t been addressed to) smiles and says: “Welcome back, dear.”

“Don’t do that.” He points at him. “That’s gay.”

Wilbur holds up his hands, scandalized. Schlatt ignores him, relinquishing his chicken and steak to the chest. 

“So, what’s for dinner?” Wilbur asks.

Schlatt scoffs and says: “My ass.”

Wilbur huffs a laugh, clearly enjoying himself. And Schlatt frowns, realizing that he’d fallen into the sway of friendly banter. He wouldn’t consider Wilbur a friend and he’s not bothered knowing Wilbur feels the same. 

* * *

Schlatt had gone to bed early that night, his sleep schedule having been shot to hell. 

When he wakes up there’s an awful shit taste in his mouth and he’s chilled to the bone. Before he can get his bearings his oak plank box shrieks in agony as it breaks in half. There’s a yelp of surprise from Wilbur and they lock eyes for a moment before water floods his vision. 

The flood smells like fish and shit. It’s so egregious that Schlatt wants to break something. He surfaces quickly, salivating like a dog. He curbs the urge to vomit instead focusing on treading water. It’s not more than three blocks high, annoying all the same though. He finds higher land quickly, claiming a patch for himself. 

And he watches the surrounding mobs drown and struggle. At once understands that this isn’t natural. A flood this large would call the attention of some mobs, they’d be up and gone to higher ground already. 

It’s as if a sheet of water were dropped atop them spontaneously. 

He doesn’t hold that thought for long however, as it starts to pour. And he grumbles something filthy under his breath. It’s dark as well causing him greif with finding shelter. 

The water behind him sputters and chokes like a human being. It’s Wilbur, shivering like a chihuahua. He pulls himself up on trembling arms, sparing Schlatt a dirty look which he’d expected to receive, regardless. 

They find shelter in a cave for the immediate moment. Wilbur starts a wet, pathetic little fire with the wood he’d saved. But Schlatt’s not complaining. 

“You went for the chest?”

Wilbur hugs his knees close to his chest. “Thought it’d be useful. Couldn’t save everything, though.” 

And if Schlatt were a different person, if he didn’t know Wilbur at all, he’d think his clipped sentences were terse out of sullen. But there’s always something turning in that mind of his. “When the rain clears we’ll have to start over.”

And Schlatt doesn’t voice this but he has a hunch, a horrid, twisting, gut feeling, that the rain won’t stop.

It pours long into the next day, the buckets of water slowing to a light drizzle just as the sun waves a farewell. Though it hadn’t really said _hello_ to begin with, the clouds playing a dreary mask for the only shred of warmth. 

And it was unbearably cold. 

Wilbur had contacted Connor earlier that day, reporting the issue to him. Connor had said that for them the sky was as clear as ever, that the sun was shining. 

By noon the water licks at the opening of their cave. The land struggles to breathe under the blanket. It’s drowning, the rain merging with the lake nearby, working to suffocate them all. 

By day’s end they’d moved to higher ground, having built themselves a nice little hut. 

Schlatt had claimed his side, disliking the even smaller space between them. This is something Wilbur (of course) protested, whining about the crafting table’s position. And they’d shared a wet, awkward _bro hug_ at some point. 

* * *

One day—it’s difficult to tell though—Wilbur breaks the walls and windows of his little hut. Out of a sense of selfishness Schlatt’s sure, and water rushes in like before. 

Schlatt, in a fit of rage, chases after him. He grabs his skinny little arm—though they're both thin as paper—and hurls him against the rocks. Wilbur scrambles up, trying to defend himself with sticks, which hurt as much as fists, but he’s inexperienced as well as clumsy.

Schlatt catches him in his stomach, knocking him to the ground and he grabs Wilbur’s throat, strangling him with all the frustration and fear that’s built behind his eyes.

Wilbur whines and writhes beneath him, gasps for breath and says that _he’ll never do it again_. He scrabbles at his arms as Schlatt pushes him further into the mud. But terrifyingly lightning cracks above them, ozone fills the air as it starts to rain harder. Affrighted Schlatt lets go of Wilbur who turns and coughs like a dying man. 

Wordlessly Schlatt accepts his apology and they never speak of it again.

* * *

It’s during one of these endless nights that Schlatt feels he’s lost his mind. Connor had stopped responding to their calls days ago and the sun sees fit no longer to grace them with warmth.

In the distance, heard sometimes over the falling sky, he hears the earth cracking into pieces. He catches a whiff of smoke and the horizon glows long after the sun has set.

Their world is falling apart, yet Wilbur doesn’t seem to share his distress. Humming something to himself, endlessly, constantly. As if the melody in his mind could curb their fast approaching demise. 

He spends much of his time searching in caves that haven’t flooded, leaving Schlatt to his own devices and it’s terribly boring. At night sometimes Wilbur might whisper a name in his distress—something along the lines of _Filza._ Other nights they curl close to each other, seeking some semblance of warmth, but are too tired (and perhaps prideful) to speak of it in the morning. 

Personal space as a whole seemed to regress into a non-issue.

It’s evening once more and there’s little land left when Wilbur returns. He disappears into the second edition of their survival hut. Not a minute later he comes out with a wooden cube. A _jukebox_. 

In any other situation he’d throw it off their little cliff, say something of a bad connote— _Stal_ —and slam the door in Wilbur’s face. But it’s Wilbur’s face which tells him not to, he’s excited, pleased in a way Schlatt had never seen. There’s a genuine thrum of emotion exuding from him. 

He places it down on a damp patch of stone and Schlatt’s sure the sun had emerged to see Wilbur’s joy at this. The clouds clear in a minute way, but Schlatt’s grateful all the same.

Like a child trying something for the first time he slides in a black disc, one Schlatt had never seen him with. The three beat rhythm starts with little fanfare, it's a somber waltz.

Wilbur sits by it.

“Where’d you get that?” Schlatt can’t help but ask. He doesn’t look at Wilbur, his eyes transfixed on the way the sun melts. _Mellohi_ reminds him of the sunset. Like the day disappearing is something sullen, and for them it is, because it means the difference between life and death. It never used to be; he curses the irony and wonders if Wilbur feels the same. 

“It’s my brother’s.” A beat of silence. “He leant it to me for the time being. Something to remember him by.”

Schlatt doesn’t look at him. He knows his face will have adopted some reminiscent look, like a _farklempt_ grandfather. 

“It feels like an eternity since I’ve listened to it.”

Schlatt says nothing of how sappy he’s being. “Me too.”

The disc trudges through its tune, muted like it's being played underwater, too slow to match the rapidly fading sun. It ends sharply, suddenly like a hypnic jerk and Wilbur laughs, saying: “A little depressing, isn’t it?”

Schlatt hums. But the beat is sickeningly nostalgic, reminding him of winter balls which he’d always enjoyed to some degree. 

There’s about a sliver of sun left when Schlatt asks Wilbur if he knows how to dance. Wilbur nods something noncommittal muttering something else and Schlatt pulls him up before he can ruin the moment. 

The ground squishes under his damp shoes as Mellohi twists around them.

Wilbur falls into the waltz expertly—so he does know how—and smiles because that seems to be his reaction to everything. 

They’re a few steps in and Wilbur giggles when pondering the _homosexuality_ of this move. 

Schlatt sighs, not wanting to explain, knowing that Wilbur doesn’t need an explanation. And he doesn’t want to say that the shift of their acquaintance to a tacit rapport is more than welcome.

Because he and Wilbur are.


End file.
